


love in all seasons

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: A year passes. Four seasons, and each brings them a little closer.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 41
Kudos: 247





	1. winter

Winter has always been Karen’s least favorite season.

It reminds her too much of home—of dirty snow packed thin by tire treads, the smell of old grease on the grill, and taste of stale beer on her tongue. The grayness of the world has a way of settling into her bones, making her irritable and lethargic. When she was in her twenties, she bought one of those therapeutic lamps that’s supposed to imitate sunlight, but it didn’t help.

It also isn’t helped when her car breaks down an hour away from middle-of-nowhere New Jersey. She’s on the side of some highway, surrounded by snowy fields and breathing into her gloves to keep her hands warm. She calls for a tow and is told it’ll be about six hours. She sits behind the wheel, wonders if Foggy would drive out to get her—but he’s on his honeymoon off in some tropical place. And Matt doesn’t drive, for obvious reasons.

There’s one other number she could call.

She probably shouldn’t. She only has his number because Lieberman is an evil technological genius and gave it to her via drone. Because apparently that’s the way all tech geeks do dead drops now. _Thought you might want this_ , he wrote, and attached a phone number.

Before she can stop herself, she punches in the number.

It rings three times before she hears a familiar voice. Raspy with disuse, slow with wariness. “Yeah?”

“Hey,” she says.

There’s another moment, then he says, “Hey.” His voice has softened a fraction.

“I—I kind of need help,” she says.

It takes him less than an hour to get there. She half-expects him to be driving some kind of windowless van, but he arrives in an old pick-up truck. It’s red, with worn seats and the smell of coffee. She knows that because she’s sitting in that truck within two minutes of him arriving. He cranks up the heat, leaves the engine running against her protests, and goes to look at her engine.

It’s the kind of truck she could have imagined him driving in another life. The kind of life he should’ve had—instead of the one fate handed him.

He returns to the truck for a toolbox that looks well-used, and then he vanishes under the hood of her car again. It’s snowing, and he has to be freezing out there, but when she starts to get out of the truck, he stands and gives her a shake of his head. So she stays in the warmth of the truck cabin, wondering if this is some kind of weird dream.

It takes him fifteen minutes. He returns to the truck, climbs into the driver’s seat. “Broken wire,” he says. “Replaced it. Car starts fine now.” He nods at the thermos. “You not thirsty?”

“Didn’t know it was for me.” She picks up the thermos. It’s the metal kind, designed to keep something warm for a couple of decades—or so the advertisements claim. She takes a sip. It’s really good coffee.

“What were you doing out here?” he asks.

She understands. “Near a field? Meeting a source. There’s been some issues with supposedly organic farms using toxic pesticides. I’m looking into it.”

He gives her a once-over, and she understands. She’s wearing flats and a skirt. Even if she has a heavy coat, she doesn’t look like she just came from a farm. “Never heard of going undercover?” he says.

She snorts. “The informant was a sexist asshole on the phone. So I wore a low-cut shirt.”

“Logical,” he replies, utterly deadpan.

“He spent the entire interview staring at my cleavage and legs instead of thinking about what I was asking him,” says Karen. “A dirty trick, maybe, but he deserved it.”

“You still look cold.”

“I’m always cold.” She lets out a breath. “Thanks for this. For—for coming. You didn’t have to.”

“’Course I did,” he says and his voice is soft. She looks up and meets his eyes. He’s got a beard again, but it’s a little neater than the first time. He looks good in a winter coat and flannel and she has to get out of here before she says something damning.

“Here,” she says, fumbling to put the thermos back.

“Return it later,” he says.

She swallows, nods. Steps out of his truck and hesitates before shutting the door. “See you, Frank.”

“Later, Karen,” he replies.

His truck idles behind her; he waits until she’s back in her car, the engine purring like it wasn’t just making angry garbage disposal noises an hour ago. Karen pulls out onto the road and drives back home.

She tries not to look in the rearview mirror.


	2. spring

In spring, Karen airs out her closet full of light blouses and skirts—and buys some allergy meds.

It’s unseasonably dry and windy, and every time Karen walks to and from work, she finds herself with an itchy throat and eyes. She takes to carrying around herbal tea in that metal thermos, loading it up with honey and mint. It’s a good thermos and it fits nicely into her purse, clinking against her gun. The city has been quiet. No great crime sprees, no super-powered nightmares, no alien attacks. But Karen has dealt with too many weird things in her life not to be prepared for some danger.

In early April, Karen glances at her calendar and her heart sinks. It’s coming up on an anniversary—not hers, but she knows the importance of some dates.

So on the date in question, she fills her thermos with the best coffee she can make. She adds a dash of whisky, brown sugar, and heavy cream. Then she takes a taxi to a cemetery.

It’s a beautiful day—the kind of day where the sunlight seems to drive away every shadow, every bad memory. Karen walks amidst the headstones and memorials, her heels sinking a little into the damp lawn.

He’s right where she expected to see him: sitting at Maria’s headstone, his back to it. He’s dressed in black jeans, black shirt, black boots—he’s only lacking the skull spray painted on his—sweater? Yes, that is most definitely a sweater. She never thought she’d see him in a sweater.

She stands over him for a moment and he looks up. His face is dry, but his pain is evident in the crease of his forehead, the tight set of his jaw. “Karen?”

“Hi, Frank,” she says softly. “Thought I might find you here.”

He looks away. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” She sits beside him. She’s wearing a bad outfit for this—a dress she’s going to have to dry clean later, but she doesn’t care. Her legs are pale in the sunlight, her shoes a little muddy.

She hands him the thermos. He takes it without a word, pulling a swig—then his face shifts with confusion.

“Irish coffee,” says Karen, with a half-smile. “Thought you might need a little extra kick.”

He takes a longer drink, then nods his appreciation. His long fingers curl around the thermos, squeezing.

“You want to talk about them?” she asks quietly.

He shakes his head. But there’s more weariness than rejection—and she understands. Grief has a way of sapping the life from a person, leaving them empty and exhausted. And he carries more grief than most.

So she just sits beside him, her back against the headstone, too. It’s sun-warmed and surprisingly comfortable. She rests her hands against her knees, and for a few minutes, she listens to the sound of the birds in the trees overhead and the cars nearby and the sound of Frank breathing.

“I’ve never told you about my brother,” she says.

He looks at her, startled. “Didn’t know you have a brother.”

“Had.” Her voice is quiet, the sadness so old that it’s almost welcome and familiar.

He gets it at once. She always knew he would, if she could only muster up the courage to tell him. And now, here they both are.

“Tell me about him?” he says.

She does. Because sometimes it’s easier to bear another’s grief than face your own. She tells him about how Kevin was the younger brother, about how he could be a brat when he was younger. But how he was also good and nice, trying to save earthworms from crossing roads and sitting beside their mother’s bedside for hours after her first surgery, reading from her favorite women’s magazines. She tells him about Kevin’s life—because she wants someone else to know.

His hand moves, covers hers. His fingers are a little rough with calluses, but his grip is careful. “He’d have liked you,” says Karen. “He’d have told you all of my embarrassing childhood stories.”

He lets out a small breath. “Sorry I never got to meet him, then.”

He doesn’t ask how Kevin died; she doesn’t tell him. It’s not a story for a sunny afternoon.

The quiet between them is easy, comfortable—full of unsaid things that really don’t need saying. His hand squeezes hers, and she expects him to release it, but he doesn’t. He just keeps on squeezing, like he’s hanging from a ledge and she’s the only stable handhold.

She isn’t sure how long they sit like that. Long enough that her ass goes numb and an ant creeps over her ankle. But she doesn’t move.

Finally, Frank lets out a breath. “I—I have to go.”

“You sure?” asks Karen. “I can stay longer.”

He shakes his head, rises from his seat. He holds out a hand and she takes it, a little grateful for the help. Her lower body is a little sore from sitting there so long. “Promised Curt I’d meet him for dinner. He’s having me over.”

“That’s good,” Karen says. “I’m—I’m really glad, Frank.” And she is.

He gives her a nod. “You want the last of the coffee?”

“You have it,” she says.

“I meant for you to have the thermos, you know.”

She begins to walk away, but she flashes a soft smile at him over her shoulder. “Then return it later.” A swallow, because this part is always the hardest. She doesn’t know if—not if, when—she’ll see him again. “Bye, Frank.”

“Later, Karen,” he says quietly.

She takes it as a promise.


	3. summer

Karen loves summer. She loves the heat even when it’s humid and sticky, when her hair clings to the back of her neck and every breath is a little muggy.

She’s in the middle of a crosswalk when she gets the call, so she doesn’t pick it up right away. She crosses the street, reaches into her purse for her vibrating phone. The call has already gone to voicemail; an unknown number. Probably spam, but there’s a voicemail about thirty seconds later. She waits until she’s safely out of the bustle of foot traffic before checking it.

_Hi, I hope I have the right number. My name is James Blanchard—I’m a friend of your dad’s. Listen, I know this is out of the blue and you live a ways away, but your dad’s been in an accident. He’s gone into surgery, and I found your number in his phone. I thought you might want to be here._

Despite the warmth of the sun on her neck and forearms, Karen goes cold.

At once, she’s running through logistics. She has to get to Vermont; she doesn’t have a car. She could grab a train—or maybe ask Foggy if she could borrow his car. But, no—he’s in trial today, which means his phone will be off.

She is barely aware of what her fingers are doing; she’s a little breathless and numb. She brings her phone to her ear, hears it ring a few times.

“Hey,” says Frank.

“I need to get to Vermont,” she says.

There’s a moment’s pause, then, “Where are you?”

She glances up at the cross section of streets, then tells him. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he says simply.

* * *

He arrives in fifteen minutes—and she doesn’t want to think about what kind of traffic laws he broke to do so. She jumps into his truck at the curb, clicks her seatbelt into place. The A/C helps drive back some of the heat and smell of the other cars. He pulls back into traffic, eyes focused and fingers steady on the wheel. He concentrates on driving until they’re out of New York, driving through Greenwich.

“Thirsty?” he asks.

She glances at him, then down at the cupholder between them. It’s that same metal thermos that she hasn’t seen since April. “Oh.” She unscrews the lid, expecting coffee. It’s lemonade—which makes her blink.

“Place near my apartment does fresh stuff,” says Frank. “It’s good.”

It is—but she just never pictured him drinking lemonade. Not even in the midst of a summer heat wave.

She takes another sip, then puts it down. “Thanks.”

He nods. She knows that he knows her gratitude isn’t just for the drink. “Something happen?”

“Yes,” she says, and then tells him about the voicemail.

“Shit,” he says. “Sorry.”

She presses her hand to her mouth. “I—we aren’t close. We haven’t spoken for a while, not since he told me not to come home.” It’s more than she expected to say, but she doesn’t regret saying it; there are no lies between her and Frank.

Frank glances at her, then passes a smaller car. His eyes stay on the road, but she has the sense he is watching her. “When was that?”

“After the Bulletin was attacked,” says Karen.

His hand squeezes the wheel, knuckles gone a little white. “He told you not to come home?”

“I thought it might be safer in some small Vermont town,” she says. “He was right, though. Knowing Fisk, it wouldn’t have been safe. Just—I don’t know. I guess some part of us always thinks of home as the only real safe place. Stupid, I know.”

Frank opens his mouth as if to reply, then goes quiet.

They drive for nearly six hours; by the time they arrive at the hospital—in the next town over, because Fagan Corners doesn’t have its own—it’s nearly evening. Frank parks the truck and says, “You want me to come in?”

“Yeah.” She opens the truck door and steps out on stiff legs. They only stopped once for gas and a restroom, and maybe she’s getting too old for impromptu road trips.

They go into the main reception and Karen rattles off her father’s name. The nurse on duty tells her the right room number and Karen finds herself navigating a maze of white walls and linoleum floors. Everything smells like antiseptic and she can hear someone crying down another hall.

She hates hospitals. Always has—but she’s hated them a little less when Frank’s with her. He’s at her shoulder, matching his steps to hers. When they find the right room, he says, “I’ll wait outside.” There are three chairs and he settles in one of them, nodding to her.

Karen nods back, then steps through the open door.

Paxton Page hasn’t aged well in the time they’ve been apart. Over ten years—and all of them seem to weigh on him. That’s probably her fault and some irrational part of her wants to apologize for the wrinkles at his eyes and forehead. For the thinning hair and slight slope to his mouth.

His eyes are closed, but when he hears her footsteps, he opens them. He blinks once, twice, then says, “What are you doing here?”

She goes still at the foot of his hospital bed. “Hi, Dad.”

He doesn’t reply in kind. One of his hands has an IV taped to its back; she watches as his fingers grasp at the thin blankets.

“Your friend called,” says Karen. “He said you were in an accident.”

Paxton grunts. “Jimmy. He must’ve took my phone.”

“You had surgery?” she asks, taking half a step closer.

Another grunt. “Fell down the stairs,” he says. “Tore some ligaments in my knee.”

She nods. “You’re still at the old house, then?”

“Why would I move?” he says, a bit of an edge to his voice.

Because it’s old and haunted with memories. Because it’s full of stairs. Because he can’t be happy there, surrounded by the trappings of a life he doesn’t have anymore. But Paxton Page never knew how to let go of anything—not his failing diner, not his wife’s memory, and not a grudge.

He look at Karen with a kind of flat detachment, and she feels that old pain welling up. Like a broken bone she’d thought had healed; there’s a familiar ache behind her ribs.

“Maybe I can stay with you for a while,” she says quietly. “If you need help—”

“Course I need help,” says Paxton sharply. “But that’s not why you’re here. At least tell the truth about that.”

Karen swallows hard. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You mean you wanted to fix things,” says Paxton bitterly. “Some things can’t be fixed, Karen. No matter how much you want them to.”

“Dad.” She takes another step closer. “I—I’m sorry. You know I’m sorry.” There’s a hitch in her voice; she sounds so much younger, like they’ve traveled back in time to when she was nineteen and still reeling from the loss. “If I could change things—”

“You’d what? Stopped dealing drugs?” says Paxton, shaking his had. “Stopped hanging out with that loser of a boyfriend? Not—not left that night?”

She winces. It hurts, it hurts far more than she wants to admit, hearing those words.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. Because it’s all she can say—she can only ever be sorry. She can’t make it right, can’t change things, she can only apologize. And in her bones, she knows it isn’t enough.

“So am I,” says Paxton. “It should’ve been you. The one they dragged out of that car, it should’ve been you—”

Footsteps ring out, each one hard against the floor. Then someone else is in the room, and Karen barely has time to register his presence before Frank is beside her. Her gaze is swimming and fuck, fuck. He probably heard all of that. The door is open; her father made no effort to lower his voice.

“Who’s this?” asks Paxton, glaring at Frank. 

Frank’s breaths are steady, but his eyes are like dark flame. “A friend.” His voice is low. “One who doesn’t like you talking to her like that.”

Paxton shakes his head. “You don’t know the full story, son.”

“I know she came here as soon as she heard you were hurt,” says Frank. “I know she was worried.”

“Guilty,” says Paxton. “Not the same as worried.”

“Frank,” says Karen, reaching for his arm. She doesn’t want him to get involved in this.

Frank’s gaze never leaves Paxton Page. “How can you talk to her like that? She’s your daughter.”

“No,” says Paxton, “she’s not.”

Frank makes a quiet, furious noise, and Karen tightens her grip on him. “Frank.” He’s still and heavy as a statue, staring at Paxton Page with anger and something like confusion, then he’s walking out of the room and taking Karen with him. His arm is like a band of steel at her waist, and she doesn’t have to navigate back to the truck—which is probably a good thing since she can’t see all that straight.

They walk out into the parking lot, into dizzying sunlight and heat. It feels wrong, as though after such a conversation it should be blisteringly cold.

Frank finally looks at her. “You okay?”

She can’t reply, not for a few moments. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fucking fine,” he says. “What he said to you—”

“It’s not his fault,” she says. She hates how small she feels, reeling from her dad’s words. And she hates that Frank was there to witness all of it. “He’s got his reasons.”

Frank throws a glance over his shoulder at the hospital, and the last of his polite mask cracks down the middle. He’s furious; anger crackles all around him, violence just needing a spark to ignite into action. The last time she saw him this angry, it was in the woods.

“Let’s go,” he says, and heads back for the truck.

* * *

They don’t drive the six hours back to New York. Frank finds them a motel off of the highway, tells her to stay in the truck while he walks inside. Part of her wants to protest, but another part of her is still reeling and glad to let him have this control. She can barely think, never mind arrange for a place to sleep. If it were just her, she’d probably have curled up in the car in some parking lot.

Frank raps at the truck’s window. When she cranks it down, he says, “Got us a place to stay.”

She gives him a small smile. “Thanks.”

The room itself is small and worn, but at least it’s clean. Karen doesn’t have any luggage, just her purse. She goes into the bathroom to wash her sweaty face and neck. A glance in the mirror tells her that she’s looked better—her eyes are too red and her lips blanched. She lets out a sigh, going back into the bedroom. She finds Frank sitting on the bed nearest the door.

He’s taken off his boots; it’s the first time she’s seen him without socks. His toes are a little pale.

She sits on the other bed. “I ordered a pizza,” says Frank. “Got everything on it—hope that’s okay.”

“I don’t like mushrooms,” she says. “Everything else is fine.”

He nods. “I’ll remember next time.”

When the pizza is delivered, Frank sets it down between the beds on a small table. He pushes aside the standard alarm clock, unplugging it and setting it on the floor. Karen takes a slice of pizza, picks off the mushrooms, then begins to eat. It tastes like nothing, but she knows she needs to eat.

Frank picks up the discarded mushrooms, puts them on his own slice.

Finally, when her fingers are greasy and her stomach full, Frank rises from the bed. He brings over a napkin, and she takes it, glad for something to do. To look at. Frank sits on the edge of her bed.

“I don’t care what you did,” he says. “Doesn’t matter.”

She looks at him.

“What your dad said,” says Frank. “That I didn’t know the whole story. That’s bullshit. Everything he said, how he treated you—he’s an asshole.”

“He’s not wrong,” Karen says, weary. She doesn’t blame her dad for that, not really. He didn’t ask her to come; she just showed up.

But Frank’s fingers clench in his lap. “I don’t know,” he says, voice low, “what kind of father could see his kid and say what he did. If—if I’d woken in that hospital, if I’d found Lisa at my bedside…” He swallows. “Everything would’ve been different.”

“What if Lisa had done something terrible?” she asks.

A muscle twitches in his forearm. “People make mistakes. When she made one—I’d try to find a way to help make things right. That’s what dads do.”

Karen looks away but she can’t hide the tightness in her chest and throat. “And if you couldn’t fix it?”

“Then I’d deal with the fallout.” Frank looks at Karen until she returns his gaze. “People are people. They fuck up, they let you down. That didn’t stop me from loving my family. Doesn’t stop me loving you, either.”

There’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space. She’s blinking and trying to draw breath.

Frank leans closer. “You’ve got to know. He’s wrong. If—if you’d died years ago, I’d probably be dead. Your friends, your boss, every person Fisk was preying on—you think they’d be better off if you weren’t around?”

The world goes fuzzy; she blinks again, and some of the tears spill down her cheeks. It’s as if he’s reached into the deepest part of her heart, uncovered every worst fear and insecurity.

His leg is close to hers; she can feel the warmth through his jeans. “He’s wrong,” repeats Frank. “Dead fucking wrong.”

She gives him a watery smile. “I may have heard you the first few times.”

“I’ll say it again if I have to,” he says, returning her smile. It’s there and gone in a matter of heartbeats. He looks at her like he’s trying to fix something, and that just makes her chest ache more. “Come on. You should get some sleep. Things look better in the morning, yeah?”

She just nods. There’s no way for her to take everything in. Not what happened with her dad, not Frank’s reaction to it, not hers. She’ll rest, deal with it later. But she wasn’t planning on an impromptu road trip, so neither have pajamas. So she shucks out of her bra, maneuvering it down one arm and out of her blouse’s sleeve. She gets beneath the covers and wriggles out of her skirt. Both bra and skirt are dropped on the other side of the bed. Frank vanishes into the bathroom and emerges shirtless.

She sits beneath the covers, the scratchy duvet rough against her thighs.

Frank removes his jeans, and he’s just there in boxers. All lean muscle and scar tissue—and she wants to touch him so badly that Karen’s fingers ache with it. It isn’t just that she wants a distraction from the day’s horrible events or that she hasn’t had sex in far too long. She wants to be closer, because it’s Frank.

She says his name, and he looks up.

Without a word, she pats the space on the bed beside her. His throat moves in a swallow, and his finger twitches, but he walks around the bed. Pulls back the covers and slides in beside Karen.

There’s a moment of shuffling awkwardness as he settles, but then his hand finds hers in the dark and his fingers weave through hers. She pulls his hand to her mouth, kisses his knuckles.

“I love you too,” she says softly.

He looks at her like he’s staring in the sun, like it hurts but he doesn’t want to glance away. His hand comes up, cups her cheek. And then he’s tugging her closer and his mouth presses to hers. Her stomach tightens, the way it does when she’s looking over a high ledge. There’s that terrifying moment when she’s sure she could freefall—but then she’s kissing him back and it’s all soft mouth and warm hands, his thigh against hers, and—

She pulls back, laughing quietly.

“What?” he says, but he’s smiling, too.

She touches his mouth, strokes her thumb over his lower lip. “Your breath tastes like mushrooms,” she tells him.

He lets out his own startled laugh, and then he kisses her cheek. “Come on. We’ll drive home tomorrow, back to where there's toothbrushes and pajamas.”

“And then…?” she can’t help but ask. Because part of her wants to know if this is something that will fade with the dawn, with their return to New York. If maybe this is just Frank taking a moment’s peace where he can find it. But then his hand moves across her hip, warm and wanting.

“And then,” he says, “I’m going to cook you dinner. No mushrooms.”

“Dinner?” she says. “Promises, promises.”

“Dinner,” he says firmly. He rolls over, so that he’s to her back and his arm is around her waist. She closes her eyes, relaxes into him.

* * *

In the morning, Karen wakes alone.

There’s a note—a sticky note attached to a thermos. That metal thermos.

_Gone to get gas. Be back soon._

She sits up, unscrews the thermos. The smell of warm coffee floods her nose. She doesn’t even know where he found good coffee in this dive of a motel, but of course he managed. She takes a swallow, then checks her phone.

Two messages. One from Foggy, texting to check in. And another from Matt, who wants to know if she’s around for dinner.

Her fingers tighten around the thermos. Family—this is the family she has. And she couldn’t be more grateful.


	4. fall

The morning of Frank’s birthday, she manages to sneak out of bed first.

It takes some effort. Frank often wakes at any slight movement in their bed. But this is one of the rare times Karen slips free of his arms and out of their bed without him rousing. She pulls on a robe, walks into the kitchen. Up first: coffee. She makes a cup, pouring it into her metal thermos. It lives in a cupboard above the microwave, and half the time Karen takes it with her when she’s on a job and the other half it goes to a demolition site with Frank. At some point, they’re going to have to buy another. But right now, she likes the sharing. It feels like a point of connection between them.

Next, she makes breakfast sandwiches. She’s still got her skills from the diner, and it’s no complicated task to fry up two eggs, a few slices of bacon, and top it all with some cheese. She uses two rolls she purchased just for this occasion, wrapping each sandwich in parchment paper. Then, she places both sandwiches in a bag and returns to the bedroom. Frank is awake and in the bathroom; she hears the toilet flush. She doesn’t bother showering, but pulls on clean clothes and ties her hair back. Where they’re going, no one will mind if she isn’t wearing make-up.

Frank emerges in boxers and little else. It’s a good look on him, and she smiles. “Hey,” he says, voice a little raspy with sleep. She kisses him, because morning breath or not, she loves kissing him. He returns the kiss with relaxed, almost luxurious slowness. It’s a reminder that they have plenty of time; he’s here and he isn’t leaving.

She is the one to pull away first. “Come on,” she says. She pats his bare chest. “You need pants for this.”

“For what?” he asks.

“Your birthday surprise.”

He blinks, taken aback. “You know?”

“Frank, of course I know.” She taps her own nose. “Investigative reporter.”

“And what is this surprise?” He pulls out a pair of dark jeans and begins tugging them on.

“Wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you.”

They end up taking Frank’s truck. He’s pleased by the breakfast sandwiches and they eat on the drive, sharing the thermos of coffee. It’s a pleasant fall morning—billowy clouds and a crisp chill to the air. They’re almost verging into winter, but not quite. Soon enough there’ll be snow and ice and winter coats.

“Would be easier if I knew where I was going,” Frank says.

She grins at him. “Turn left on the next street.”

He exhales, seemingly amused by her secrecy.

They’ve been living together for nearly four months now. He moved what little he owned into her place, and it was a surprisingly easy transition. Frank’s not difficult to live with—he’s clean and quiet, and he likes cooking. She’s seen him slowly relax into the new space, his defenses lowering with every passing month. No longer does he sleep with a loaded gun at the bedside table—now, it’s in the closet. He’s gone to work, finding other jobs then hunting down killers. And he’s talking with David Lieberman again, going to family dinners over there every other week.

It’s good. It’s so good that part of Karen doesn’t want to trust it, wants to guard herself against whatever coming tragedy will be aimed at them—but that’s no way to live.

They pull into the right parking lot and Karen sees the moment Frank gets it. His fingers go still in his lap, his gaze on the sign.

“I checked with my building manager,” says Karen. “It’s fine. I’m a good tenant. And—I mean. We don’t have to, if you think we’re not ready. But—”

Frank opens his door. Karen scrambles out after him, pulling on her jacket. Frank gazes at the building with a kind of wary hope, and Karen finds herself taking his hand. His fingers slide through hers, and then they walk inside.

The sound of barking is the first thing Karen hears. There’s a young woman behind the counter, and Karen gives her name and appointment time. “We’ve got some really good rescues,” says the young woman, opening up a door. They walk inside, and Karen feels a small pang at the sight of the kennels. It’s a good shelter, but there’s always something saddening about the thought of animals being left abandoned.

They walk down the aisle, past a few puppies—“CLAIMED,” reads a very large sign—and then a small terrier. Frank is tense beside her, his gaze sweeping over every animal.

She knows when he’s found the one. He goes still, his attention on the kennel to their left.

“That’s Mabel,” says the volunteer. “Do you want to meet her?”

She’s a well-sized dog, with her shoulder just below Karen’s knee. Her fur is mostly black, with bits of brown here and there.

“We think she’s mostly rottweiler,” says the volunteer, clipping a leash to the dog’s collar. She leads her out, and Frank kneels before the dog. “She’s very sweet, but she’s got some anxiety issues,” says the volunteer. “She doesn’t like loud noises, particularly clapping.”

“Clapping?” asks Karen, with a frown.

“It sounds too much like hitting,” says the volunteer, and Karen’s heart breaks a little at that.

Mabel sniffs around Frank’s extended fingers. Then she nudges against his palm, clearly hoping for pets. Frank obliges, rubbing around her ears and cheek. Mabel makes a happy little sound and leans into him. “Hey,” he says softly. He runs his fingers under chin. “She’s got some scarring.”

“She’s been in a few fights,” says the volunteer. “We’re not sure if she was in a home with other dogs or maybe she had to defend herself on the streets. Probably around four years old. She’s fixed and she would need a quiet household, preferably no other pets. But she’s really gentle and she likes kids.”

Karen squats down beside Frank and Mabel turns her attention to the new human, sniffing at Karen’s knees. “Hi, there,” says Karen. “You want to come home with us?”

Mabel leans her chin against Karen’s leg and gives her such a plaintive look that Karen lets out a laugh and strokes the dog’s head. Mabel sighs, her eyes closing.

“We’ll take her,” says Frank.

It takes about an hour and a half to go through all of the paperwork and pay the fee. When they’re done, Mabel is trotting alongside Karen, her tail wagging with every step. Luckily she seems to like cars, because she is happy to sit between Karen’s feet on the drive home. She keeps look up at them with unadulterated adoration and Karen keeps petting her, feeling a little giddy.

Once they get home, Mabel uses the patch of grass outside the apartment building and then they take her up. Karen made a few secretive purchases and she digs them out of the closet—a large dog bed, some toys, and bowls.

“You planned for this,” says Frank.

Karen shrugs. “I figured it’d happen eventually.”

He catches her around the waist before she can put one chew toy down. Warm hand at her cheek, his mouth soft against hers. She kisses him back—until Mabel delicately tries to take the chew toy from Karen’s hand. Karen laughs, gives over the toy, and Mabel carries it to the corner and puts it between her forelegs.

“She’s going to fit right in,” says Frank.

Karen looks down at her pants, covered in black dog hair. “I’ll have to buy a lint roller.”

“Doubt she could shed as much as you do,” Frank says and Karen gives him a nudge.

“Hey, if you didn’t want to find blonde hairs in your shirts, you shouldn’t have picked up the phone when I called you last winter,” she says.

He leans his forehead against hers. “Glad I did.”

“That so?” she says, still a little teasingly.

But his reply is all truth. “Best decision I could’ve made.”


End file.
